


A Gossamer Dream

by CarmillaCarmine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, London, M/M, Online Friendship, Online Romance, Phone Sex, Teacher Sherlock Holmes, Writer John Watson, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22212991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: Professor Sherlock / Writer John - "Met online" AUSherlock had never realised one could care so much about someone they'd never met in person.Now he is about to meet the friend with whom he's been chatting online for months and his anticipation is reaching a crescendo.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 353
Kudos: 679
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. The Signing

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сон наяву (A Gossamer Dream)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702061) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> Prepare for the most romantic thing I have ever written.  
> Betad by Lisa4Language and WritingOutLoud.

Sitting at a table inside the small café of Foyle’s bookshop, central London, Sherlock pulled his phone out and opened the discord app.  
  
Sherlock: Bored.  
Ian: Are you at the event?  
S: Almost. Biding my time by drinking horrid coffee. I don’t want to go.  
I: You’ve survived worse, I’m sure. Think of all the synonyms you could use to describe this event in your article later.  
S: They will be very similar to those I use describing poorly written fiction.  
I: Very funny.  
S: I can’t wait for it to be over.  
I: Just a few more hours… 

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of the plans they had for a few hours from now, and he exhaled slowly. He kept his reply simple, his thumbs flowing fast over the screen of his phone, channelling his impatience for time to pass.

S: Yes.  
I: I gotta run. TTYL or rather -- see you after XD

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and he smiled to himself at the reply, even as his body tingled with anticipation. He looked at his phone fondly before returning it to his trouser pocket. 

He had been conversing with _paprika-hendl-lover_ , or Ian, for over six months now. They had met in a Discord group chat for vampire lore lovers and fanatics. Even though most people in the group were absolute idiots, Sherlock had found them useful in digging out information from all corners of the world. As a professor at the University Paris-Sorbonne, his life was consumed by English literature; more specifically that from the Victorian era. From an early age, he had been drawn to the brilliance and innovation of the dark and gory genre during that prolific literary period. 

He was obliged to publish articles in the University’s magazine; however, he was inclined to publish them in niche French press, as well as not strictly scholarly magazines in the UK. It mattered not in which language he wrote, being fluent in both, his native English and home-taught French. He often needed excerpts from books that were only available in print, the copies held in libraries far from France or England, his home country. The chat had come in handy when he’d wanted to ask people for data, more times than he would care to admit. He’d never used his real name, of course. That would be unprofessional. Instead, he used the handle _Nosferatu-lives_. By now, Ian was privy to his real first name and, to his knowledge, he was the only one who knew Ian’s name. In time, they both had divulged a bit more information about themselves than Sherlock would otherwise share online with anyone else. He wasn’t overly liked in the ‘fandom’, as the chat members called it, tending to speak his mind. The small-minded people tended to have difficulties following his thought processes.

Only one person had ever matched him stroke for stroke. He and Ian had had several heated conversations in the public channel, exploring the differences but mostly similarities in their interpretations of classical literary works. After several ignorant fools in the chat disrupted their ‘off-topic’ praise of Shelley's social and political awareness in _Frankenstein_ , they moved their banter into a private chat. Ian had vast knowledge of the classics, one that could rival even his own, and they hit it off chatting about Victorian horror literature first, and later various other works of the period. Within months they’d discussed favorite books from their childhood, up to whatever they’d been currently reading. 

All of those interests had brought Sherlock to this moment, when the utter arse that was the university dean, his brother Mycroft, had sent him from Paris to London to attend a Q&A and book signing for a fast-rising star in the world of vampire fiction, John Watson. When Mycroft wasn't busy dealing with international press and book publishers, he seemed to take special care in ruining Sherlock's life by forcing him into dull situations, such as this one. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to read the book, as he felt that all modern horror stories lacked the spirit of the truly mystical Victorian London and he was against wasting his time on such idiocy. 

Sighing heavily, he exited the coffee shop and headed to join the book signing. As he approached the door, a large poster showcasing the book’s cover and a sickeningly overdone combination of red and black abstract art assaulted his eyes. 

“John Watson, the esteemed author of ‘The Night Terror’ -- Book signing event at 1 pm.” 

Below that was the most ridiculous claim which read: “Dubbed the next Bram Stoker.” 

“Oh please,” Sherlock scoffed and followed the signs to the conference room indicated by the poster. Firstly, no one should be compared to Bram Stoker, no matter how good a writer they were. Secondly, no book should be compared to the ultimate classic of the genre. It was, simply put, absurd. The author must be a completely pompous, self-absorbed idiot. Sherlock had not even entered the event and he would already regret the whole trip if not for the plans he had tonight with Ian. 

Sherlock approached the conference room and handed over his ticket to a bored-looking ticketer. The room was organised theatre-style for maximum capacity, with as many chairs packed into the room as possible. He shrugged off his long, woollen coat before he took a seat in the last row, hoping to avoid being cramped between annoying people. Within minutes, the place started filling with fans of the book until there was not a single seat left. 

When the keynote speaker mounted the small stage, the gathered crowd clapped, but it was the wolf whistle that made Sherlock look up. The reaction struck him as bizarre, as it was a book signing, not a Beatles concert. However, when his gaze landed on the man on stage, he concurred. 

The first thing he noticed about the blonde-haired man were his eyes. The topaz-blue gaze shone with warmth and the eyes were made impossibly mesmerising by the laugh lines at their corners. His short, neat haircut left the clean-shaven face fully visible. His sincere smile made one want to smile in return. The overhead lighting created an aura around him, making him look young and playful.

Sherlock found himself gaping as he took in the man who hid his body under a checked shirt and deep plum cardigan. His pleasant demeanour belied how he commanded the room with his presence, yet both created an alluring combination. The man was clearly in his element, but the way he held the book, with arms folded over his chest, made him appear humble. However, the _coup de foudre_ , as the French called it, hit Sherlock fully only after the man spoke.

“Hi, I’m John Watson. If you came here for the Q&A and signing of my book, then you’re in the right place.”

The crowd replied with another round of applause.

“Show of hands; who read the book already?” The majority raised their hands. “Excellent. I hope you enjoyed it. For today, I picked an excerpt from the beginning of the book for those of you who haven’t read it yet. Let’s start there.”

The carefree interaction with his audience made everyone in the room lean forward in their seats. Sherlock found himself listening, entranced. It was not the content itself, for he was hardly able to pay attention to it, but the voice of the speaker. The husky tone of it was tinged with a subtle Scottish accent, as John Watson delivered the lines in a flowing tenor. The way he read, with complete immersion and conviction, was akin to a great actor treading the boards as Hamlet at The Globe Theatre. The sentences formed perfectly, shaping the world in a way that made Sherlock envision the scene. All too soon, however, John stopped reading, making Sherlock wish he could find an audio version of the novel read by the author, just so he could lay down, close his eyes and get lost in the tone of his voice.

When John prompted people to ask questions, a forest of hands appeared in the air. As he addressed inquiries concerning a possible sequel and more signings, his Scottish lilt made Sherlock think of how Ian would sound. He knew his best friend was native to Edinburgh but it was impossible to tell from their texting whether his accent was thick or not, whether his voice was low or high...

Even though they had been chatting for over six months, they had never seen each other or talked on the phone. Nevertheless, their friendship had progressed through mutual sharing of titbits of their daily lives. For Sherlock, it had started without his realising what he was doing. He’d found himself wanting to tell Ian about a stupid person that had ruined his coffee that day, and about the idiotic show he’d watched in a waiting room before a doctor’s appointment.

By now, Sherlock was used to waking up in the morning and, after turning off his alarm clock, texting Ian a simple ‘good morning’ message. 

Ian had shared the mundane, yet oddly fascinating, bits of his own life, such as the fact that his neighbour had taken up the trumpet and that Ian had bought a new coffee machine. In time, he’d also mentioned his older sister and how they had taken care of each other when their parents had passed. 

During one conversation, he’d mentioned that he would be travelling to London on business, and as if by a stroke of luck, Sherlock had been scheduled to go to London on the same day to attend this wretched book signing. 

Applause erupted, breaking Sherlock’s reverie, and Watson bowed and smiled radiantly at his fans. “See ye efter,” he concluded; his drawl much thicker than before.

Sherlock stopped with his coat halfway on and furrowed his brow as a tingling sensation crept up his neck. He looked back to the stage one last time. John Watson was just turning the microphone off as the line for the signing started to form. Sherlock frowned at his own reaction and decided he had had enough of the event and was ready to leave. 

Outside, he took a lungful of the crisp January air and let his shoulders relax before he wrapped a scarf around his neck. Despite his upturned collar, the wind still tousled the unruly swoop of hair on his head. 

He had over an hour before he was to meet Ian for a drink, so he set out for a slow walk through the London streets towards a historical pub close to Trafalgar Square. It would normally have been just a 12-minute walk but he was unable to sit still and wait at a pub. 

The very thought of seeing Ian in person sent a wave of anticipation through him, much fierier than warranted for just a friend.

It was only after they had realised they had the possibility to meet in person that their online relationship had taken a more personal turn. Even if Sherlock had wanted to meet before that, he wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask Ian to travel to him. On the same note, he would have felt like an offer to visit Ian in Edinburgh would be an imposition. 

A serendipitous meeting seemed less weighty and yet, Sherlock’s feelings were still spiked with nervous apprehension. He was painfully aware that he would have to downplay his interest in getting to know Ian better than the man would probably want him to. Ian had mentioned that he had been married and his wife had left him. The fact that he had never broached the subject again made it clear that the event must have been painful. It also suggested that he may not be interested in advances from a man.

There was an innate attraction between them, however; of that Sherlock was certain. He had thought it was platonic for Ian until that fateful day in October when Ian had been researching London. He’d needed the information for some secret project; one he refused to tell Sherlock about. Sherlock had vast knowledge of his native city, so he had been able to help.

Passing by, Sherlock took in the current artwork on the Fourth Plinth in front of the National Gallery, paying little attention to it as he got lost in thought. He recalled the conversation he had had with Ian over four months after they’d started interacting daily. They had been chatting late into Friday night, sipping whisky on both ends of the screen, when Sherlock had sent Ian the intel he’d combined into a neat document.

_Ian: I could kiss you for that information!_

_Sherlock: Promises, promises…_   
_I: No, I really could kiss you right now._

_Heat travelled to Sherlock’s cheeks as he imagined Ian’s lips on his. No, he meant a kiss on the cheek maybe... Yes, a chaste peck... Sherlock couldn’t think of a thing to type in reply. A minute passed._

  
_I: Oh, sorry! I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable._   
_S: No no, of course not._   
_I: You sure?_   
_S: It’s simply that I just thought you were straight._

_The moment he sent the reply, he regretted it instantly. Even though they had shared bits of information about their personal lives before, their flirty banter had been kept under the guise of a joke, never more. Sherlock refused to let his romantic thoughts seep through the typed text. Even if Ian had meant what he’d said, a single kiss wouldn’t mean he was attracted to men. Just as having been married to a woman, didn’t mean that Ian was straight..._

_I: I thought so too... for a long while._   
_S: Oh?_   
_I: Can I ask you something?_

_Ian seemed to be avoiding answering and Sherlock was mentally kicking himself for possibly ruining their friendship with prying questions._

_S: Shoot._   
_I: How did you know you were gay? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to._

_The words hit Sherlock like a bag of bricks but he should have expected direct questions after four months of sharing thoughts and discussing topics he had never broached with anyone else. There had been several nights of chatting and drinking when more than one example of so called “TMI” arose._

_S: I was just never attracted to women._   
_I: Not at all?_   
_S: No._   
_I: I always had the feeling that everyone could appreciate the beauty of the same sex without being sexually attracted to them._   
_S: What do you mean?_

_Sherlock didn’t want to assume anything and needed more information without asking questions full of presumptions._

_I: I could always spot a good-looking guy, but I was attracted to women more and so I considered myself heterosexual. Or rather, I hadn’t thought about it at all. Now, I see things differently. I mean..._

_There was a longer pause during which Sherlock found himself riveted to the line ‘paprika-hendl-lover is typing’ on the screen. He raked a hand through his hair and pulled, hoping the pain would help him focus on something other than the remote hope of Ian reciprocating his interest._

_I: I mean, would you let me kiss you?_

_“Holy hell!” Sherlock yelled into the darkness of his flat. “You can’t just type that!” He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and moved his chair closer to the desk to see Ian was still typing._

_S: Yes._

_Sherlock’s fingers shook as he typed the word. He hoped the full stop at the end broadcasted his decisiveness, but it would be silly to expect Ian to read into his punctuation. A second after he had hit enter, the message Ian had been typing appeared on screen._

_I: I don’t think I’d have the courage, but all I’m asking is, if you would give me the opportunity. Because I’ve thought about it and... I’d better stop now. I think I had too much to drink._

_Sherlock’s heart was trying to jump out of his chest at just the idea of Ian thinking of kissing him, let alone of an actual kiss. It was ludicrous. He was a grown man, swooning over someone he had met online. Sherlock shook his head which did nothing to clear his thoughts._

_Judging by his profile picture, Ian looked like chicken bits in red sauce. For all Ian knew, Sherlock looked like Max Schreck in his most famous role. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had been attracted to someone’s mind and mind only, without caring what he looked like._

_A long moment passed without either of them typing anything. Then Ian’s message appeared._

_I: I will sleep well tonight. Or dream without sleeping. Goodnight, Sherlock._

_Sherlock found himself staring at the screen, his eyes stinging from the glow in the darkness of his sitting room. Was Ian saying what Sherlock thought he was saying? Whenever Ian used his real name, it was like a small blow that dissolved into warmth hit Sherlock's chest; as if using his real name when talking online was akin to a caress._

_S: Goodnight, Ian. Me too._

_Sherlock was an idiot, on his way to have his heart shattered into pieces. Distance. He would have to keep a bit of a distance or he would fall down a well of emotions from which there was no rope nor ladder to get out._

A car horn startled Sherlock from his thoughts and he waved at the taxi that almost hit him as he was mindlessly crossing the street. He mouthed “sorry” and picked up his pace.

A moment later, Sherlock entered The Harp, the pub they had chosen for their first meeting. He walked past the stained-glass windows and meandered through the local clientele to reach the bar. 

“Glenmorangie Signet, if you have it. Neat. One now and one in twenty minutes. I’ll be upstairs. Thank you.” He said the words as if reciting them, impatient to sit and wait for his friend to arrive.

The bartender nodded and was off to take another order. Sherlock took the narrow, wooden stairs to the upper floor. The wall of the staircase was covered with old portraits in frames but Sherlock’s mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of Ian to notice what was in them. The small, round table with four leather wing chairs was unoccupied and Sherlock arranged the furniture to his liking before he took a seat in the chair in the window corner and took out his phone.

S: I’m in the pub. Sitting upstairs by the window.  
I: I’m almost there.

Sherlock felt too warm and realised that he was still wearing his coat. He stood up to remove it, draped it over the chair, then rearranged it again before he finally sat back down. He should have gone to the bathroom first to refresh his face. His hair probably looked awful after the stroll in the wind...

“Your drink, sir,” the young waiter smiled at him professionally as he placed a glass on the table, then was gone the next moment. Sherlock took a sip of his whisky and released a long breath.

Thankfully, he managed to swallow in time, as he might have choked at what appeared before his eyes. 

John Watson, the same John Watson from the signing, entered the pub and was walking his way. Sherlock frowned at the expression on his face. He wore a pleasant smile but the utter guilt that seeped into his features was something he didn't even attempt to hide.

“Oh...” Sherlock muttered, as the realisation hit him head-on. How could he have been so blind, so stupid not to see the obvious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
>   
> coup de foudre - /ˌkuː də ˈfuːdr(ə),French ku də fudʀ/  
> Noun  
> a sudden unforeseen event, in particular an instance of love at first sight.  
> "Their fateful meeting caused a coup de foudre that grew into lifelong love."  
>   
> Paprika-hendl-lover (Ian’s handle) - refers to a chicken dish with sweet paprika that Jonathan Harker was served during his travels on his way to Transylvania in the novel Dracula.  
>   
> Max Schreck - played Graf Orlok - in 1922 F.W. Murnau’s [“Nosferatu”](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0013442/), a movie loosely based on “Dracula”  
>   
> [The Harp Pub - gallery](https://www.harpcoventgarden.com/gallery/)  
> 


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spark ignites as Sherlock meets his best friend in real life for the first time.

It was impossible. 

It was absolutely impossible for Sherlock to be so gorgeous, almost unearthly. Ian took in the man sitting in the chair by the window and could hardly believe his eyes. The dark, tousled hair only added to the regal beauty of the face lost in thought. He looked suave even without moving a muscle, in a crisp white shirt, the two upper buttons left open to reveal the expanse of a long, pale neck. 

Just a few more steps and he would be face to face with his best friend. Ian had concealed his profession because Sherlock had told him that he despised modern literature and he didn’t want to drive a wedge between them before they met in real life. He’d tried to placate the guilt he’d been feeling over concealing the information, with the fact that he had never revealed that he was John Watson, the writer, to anyone online. Ian hadn’t known that his book signing had been the event Sherlock had been scheduled to attend. Though he now recognised that Sherlock had been the handsome, brooding stranger in the back row of the conference room who’d caught his eye. 

Hoping his omission wouldn't backfire on him, he smiled as he tried -- and failed miserably -- to conceal the guilty expression forming on his face. All the anticipation that had accumulated over the past several months was now stirring under Ian’s skin, making him aware of every step that brought him closer to his friend. Would Sherlock be the same person he had been online? Would they click in real life as they had behind the screens separated by miles? 

“You lied to me,” were the first words Sherlock spoke to him in the rumbly baritone of a dragon slayer. His expression was serious and Ian’s smile faded as he stopped in his tracks. 

“Sherlock?” Ian asked, even though it could not have been anyone else. 

“You said your name was Ian.” The statement was cold and emotionless, causing a pang of hurt in Ian’s chest. 

“It is. Let me explain.” Ian took the seat opposite the man who was glaring a hole in his head. “I wanted you to meet me as your Ian, not as the writer.” He folded his hands on the small table. “I had no idea my signing was the event you were coming to write an article about.” 

“So, you lied to me.” Sherlock was definitely just as direct in real life as he was online, that was certain.

“Well, yes.” Frustration was slowly brewing in Ian. This was not how he had imagined their first meeting. “You hate modern writing. I didn’t want you to hate me or ridicule me.” His voice didn’t break, but it was on the verge of doing so. 

“I wouldn’t have.” Sherlock lifted his chin high and the last rays of the sun outside made his high cheekbones look sharp. 

“Yes, you would have. You could have refused to meet with me and I wanted...” Ian splayed his palms on the table, torn between laying his heart between them to be crushed and standing up to leave without looking back. “Fuck, Sherlock. I’m sorry, okay?” 

Sherlock's face smoothed from angry to intrigued as his long fingers wrapped around the glass of whisky on the table. 

“Ok, maybe you do have a point. But John is a perfectly common name, so why did you say your name was Ian?” Sherlock moved the glass on the table in small circles, causing the liquid to stir inside as he observed Ian with a sharp, but slightly playful stare. 

“Because it is. John Watson is my pen name. I mean, no publisher would put Ian Malcolm MacLachlan on a cover of a book.” 

“They would, if you wrote Highland romance.” Sherlock snorted as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. 

“Shut up.” Ian released a small laugh himself. “That’s not such a terrible idea.” 

Just like that, the atmosphere lightened and Ian’s shoulders relaxed slightly as a drink appeared before him. He looked questioningly at Sherlock who shrugged in a way that confirmed he was the one who ordered it. 

“Can I join you then?” Ian inquired, but could tell from the smile remaining on Sherlock’s face that the question was moot. 

“Cheers.” Sherlock lifted his glass to clink it with Ian’s. The way he looked at Ian’s lips made the writer thankful for the liquid courage in his hand. The sight of the cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s upper lip made Ian want to trace the outline with his finger, then with his tongue... 

“Slàinte!” Ian replied, taking his own glass. He enjoyed the burn of the whisky as it slid down his throat and spread warmth in him, so pleasant after his walk in the chilly air. The alcohol was not the only thing warming him from the inside. He scrambled for something to say to cover how flustered he was in Sherlock's presence. “What’s your real name, then?” 

“I told you my real name.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning every thread of Ian’s clothing and every hair on his head. It made Ian feel like an ant under a magnifying glass on a sunny summer day. 

“Your birth name is Sherlock?” Ian asked, a tad bewildered, as the name sounded like something a writer might have made up to make his character unique. 

“Yes, unlike you, I didn’t lie about my name.” Sherlock’s voice was playful and Ian knew he was being toyed with. 

“I didn’t lie either. Ian is my real name,” Ian retorted, torn between laughter and exasperation. 

“That’s right, you only lie to your readers...” How could a smooth baritone be so soothing and so jabbing at the same time? 

“It’s called a pen name! I have a name many find difficult to pronounce so I use a different one on the covers of my books. I can’t believe you’re as frustrating in real life as you are online!” Ian let the words fly, letting himself be more honest than was customarily polite.

“I warned you about that.” Sherlock shrugged, looking smug, as if wearing the armour of brusqueness had protected him from people all his life. Then he looked up at Ian and frowned. “Is Sherlock a strange name to you, then?” 

“I didn’t say that.” _Fuck._

“You implied it.” Sherlock lifted his eyebrows but a frisky look took over his face. 

Ian couldn’t help but smile. The arsehole just wanted to keep needling him, for reasons unknown, and that made Ian enjoy the exchange all the more. 

“I think we should order food.” Ian reached for the menu on the opposite table. “They have sandwiches. No tomato for you, right?” he asked, recalling how Sherlock had complained about being served a sandwich with a tomato once, after he’d said he wanted none. 

“Yes, and no prawns for you.” Sherlock smirked, clearly thinking of the instance Ian had gotten a rash and felt obligated to tell Sherlock about it. 

It was bizarrely wonderful how they could talk freely even though they had met in person for the first time just minutes before. 

“I’ll go order.” Ian’s chair scraped the wooden floor as he moved to stand up. Before he left, however, he draped his coat on the chair as a token promising that he’d be back. 

\- 

Sherlock watched Ian disappear as he descended the stairs towards the bar. His arse looked magnificent in the dark blue jeans he wore, and Sherlock found himself staring after the man for whom he lowered his defences enough to miss the obvious. Once the online persona of Ian -- his online friend, and John Watson -- the writer, clicked together in his head, Sherlock marvelled at the complexity of the person who managed to look so handsome yet so unassuming. Sherlock had been told many times before that he looked unapproachable, with his perpetually moody expression and dark clothes. Ian, however, could lure you into a trap with his friendly demeanour, then pounce on you when you were least expecting it. That was exactly what he’d done to him when they’d talked online and then again at the signing. 

John… Ian was just as sharp in person as he’d been online. Sherlock felt as if he floated in a dream and was about to wake up, only to desperately wish to go back to sleep. It never worked that way, however, because once you were awake, your brain didn’t allow you to go back to the same dream. The only thing that would save him now was to never wake up from it. 

The waiter delivered two glasses of water moments after Ian came back to the table. He said something to Ian and Sherlock did a double take as he didn’t understand the words being spoken. Ian laughed and replied in what Sherlock recognised must be Scottish Gaelic. 

Ian’s voice in the harsh language made Sherlock's body respond with heat and he squirmed in his seat to get more comfortable without raising suspicions. Quickly enough, they started speaking English, but Ian’s accent stayed strong right after transitioning. Several sentences in, Ian’s voice settled into perfect English with a dab of Scottish lilt in it, which Sherlock now recognised as his natural accent. 

Sherlock mentally kicked himself for having refused to talk over the phone for so long. He preferred to text and when Ian had suggested they talk on the phone, he’d felt a bit overwhelmed and had declined the offer. What a fool he had been. To think he could have spent their evenings listening to that voice in his ear instead of typing on his phone in the dark sitting room or in bed. 

“Sorry for that,” Ian apologised after the waiter left. 

“Don’t be. I didn’t know you spoke Gaelic so fluently.” 

“My grandma was a firm believer that we should know the old language. As you’ve told me yours was when it came to teaching you French, right?” 

One evening as they had chatted, Ian had asked Sherlock how it had happened that Sherlock knew French fluently enough to write and teach in it, and he had shared the story with his friend. Now, it was his turn to ask and Ian obliged, telling him about the weekends and holidays he’d spent at his grandma’s. 

Sherlock could listen to Ian talk all night, and he was sure now that he would imagine Ian speaking to him once he was back in his flat in Paris and alone... 

“Bon appetit” Sherlock said as their sandwiches arrived. 

Ian inspected the inside of his sandwich and seemed to be satisfied as he took a hearty bite of it. They ate in companionable silence, exchanging looks as if they were teenagers liable to fall into a fit of giggles for no reason whatsoever. Sherlock was so full of excitement that his stomach fluttered, and after half a sandwich, he was unable to eat anymore. 

\- 

Ian was unable to take his eyes off of his friend even as they ate. But since Sherlock was taking in Ian’s face and attire as if he were cataloguing every fibre of his shirt, Ian let himself gawk in return. 

“How about a walk?” Sherlock took the last sip of his drink and set it back on the table with a definitive clink as if to seal the decision. 

Ian’s first reaction was to protest, as he had just arrived and it was chilly outside. However, he found himself wanting to walk next to Sherlock through the streets of London, so he nodded at the request. 

“Gimme a moment.” He downed the remainder of his drink and set it next to Sherlock’s. The sight of their glasses standing close together on the table caused a sentimental response in him and he mentally scolded himself for being so naïve. Here he was, dreaming of this meeting for months and imagining them embracing the moment they laid eyes on one another. He would hold Sherlock so close that he would be able to smell his hair, feel the body of his friend close to his with their arms wrapped around each other. Then they would look each other in the eyes and see what the other wanted. Ian knew he would want a kiss, even if just a meeting of lips... He would plead for more, he would ask Sherlock to show him how deeply he cared, show him how much he wanted to touch him. So far, however, it seemed Sherlock was not interested in anything of the sort at all. 

“Careful!” Sherlock caught Ian by the elbow, making him startle back. He looked quizzically at Sherlock as they stopped walking. Somehow, they’d made it out of the pub and were strolling among the Friday evening pre-theatre crowds outside. 

“What?” he asked, to which Sherlock indicated the ground with his gaze. Ian was about to step into a puddle and Sherlock saved his shoes and his dignity in one go. “Thanks,” he said but didn’t move his arm from Sherlock’s grip. To his astonishment, Sherlock didn’t move his hand away either as they continued their stroll. Even through their coats, Ian could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body. It was as if the point their arms touched was on fire, as if their bodies were cast of iron and melting there from the heat to connect them forever. Ian felt tingling spreading from the point of contact throughout his body. They were touching. It wasn’t a casual handshake, not even a ‘bro-hug’; it was more intimate than that.

“I always liked coming to this bookshop when I was a teenager,” Sherlock said wistfully, indicating a place they were passing. 

“Let’s go in.” Ian took advantage of having Sherlock’s arm still around his and pulled him inside. The chiming of a bell sounded when they entered and Sherlock immediately steered them towards the horror section. The shop had shelves full of old, used volumes in surprisingly dustless covers. The owner clearly loved this place and took good care of the treasures it held inside.

“Look at this!” Ian picked up a battered volume of Dracula. “I didn’t know there was an edition with Christopher Lee on the cover!” He didn’t hide the excitement in his voice. 

“I thought you preferred the 1931 version with Bela Lugosi,” Sherlock retorted. 

“I do.” Ian grinned, looking up at the wind-blown hair of his friend. “If I was here alone, my first instinct would be to buy it and ship it to you.” 

“And now?” Sherlock lifted his eyebrow. 

“And now, I just want to buy it and hand it to you in person. Don’t even pretend you don’t want to have it. I can see it in the way you’re looking at the book.” 

“I can get it myself.” Sherlock thrust his chin up in defiance, making Ian want to kiss the sharp rim of his jaw for being so adorably stubborn. 

“That’s not the point.” Ian was grinning as he slipped his hand from Sherlock’s hold and almost skipped on his way to the counter. 

\- 

The bell chimed again as they left and Sherlock was holding the book Ian had insisted on buying for him. It was arguably the best gift he’d ever received. Sure, people had bought him books many times before, but new books and ones he was usually not keen on reading. They usually said, “I thought you might like this”, though they didn’t really know his literary taste. Ian did. Ian would rather buy him a different edition of the book Sherlock loved than try to impress him with a seemingly clever purchase. 

He deliberately held the book in his right hand, even though he always liked to have his dominant hand free. He wanted his left hand to hang loose in case he could pretend Ian needed assistance again and give him a reason to take it. 

To his utter shock and delight, however, it was Ian who looped his arm through Sherlock’s, to resume the way they had held each other before they had entered the bookshop. 

Sherlock slid the book into the depths of his coat pocket. Now, both of them had their dominant hands free in case they needed to grab their swords or stakes and fight imaginary vampires and demons.

“Even if you prefer the 1958 version with Lee over the 1931 one, you can’t deny that the 1977 _Count Dracula_ was the most faithful to the book.” Ian continued the conversation they had started in the bookshop. 

“They used the real places in Whitby that were mentioned in the book, true, but the budget was insufficient to allow them to convey the book's full essence.” 

While they conversed, Sherlock's eyes focused on the intertwined fingers of the couple walking in front of them. The need to feel Ian’s hand in his own became even more incessant. _How would Ian’s fingers fit between his own?_ He felt as if he would die and get blown about in a violent storm in the second circle of Dante’s Inferno if he couldn’t find that out as soon as humanly possible. 

Inconspicuously, he started sliding his hand lower and lower, inching towards Ian’s, pretending it was just him loosening the grip as they walked. Ian was speaking but Sherlock could hardly focus anymore as he tried keeping it cool when their hands were so close to touching. 

Someone from the crowd walking in the opposite direction accidentally bumped Ian’s shoulder, causing a slight movement away from Sherlock that made him grip Ian’s hand in his and hold on tight to prevent them from being separated. It was a move born from instinct and yet, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t have caught anyone else’s hand that way. 

Trying to act casual, Sherlock chanced a side glance at Ian, who didn’t seem to notice the monumental change in their state of being, the world tilting in their favour, the wind blowing at their backs, not in their faces. With another glance as they continued walking, however, Sherlock saw the blush that spread on Ian’s cheeks. 

So he did notice; he was just playing it cool as well. Sherlock stifled the grin that was trying to overtake his face and settled for a small smile instead. He felt like a teenager courting his first crush and it was the most amazing feeling. His feet were stepping on clouds and he had a momentary need to jump up and click his heels together or dance like Gene Kelly in _Singin’ in the Rain_ and, singing, proclaim how he felt light and free. 

Holding Ian’s hand, Sherlock felt capable of fighting evil vampires and a lot more. Like a teen with his whole life in front of him, he could leave his home and continue walking with Ian by his side until they circumnavigated the Earth.

However, he kept his composure during their stroll, observing how people reacted after noticing they were holding hands. Most of them paid no attention at all, and even if a few people’s stares lingered a bit too long, their opinion didn’t matter. Sherlock held his chin up, feeling proud to have Ian holding his hand. He wanted the whole of London -- the entire world -- to see them holding hands in public, walking together like partners, best friends and maybe more than that. 

Sherlock steered them towards the pathway along the north bank of the Thames.

The sun had already set, leaving London bathed in city lights. The leafless trees were quiet in the light evening breeze that soothed Sherlock's face with its caress. 

Ian’s face was illuminated by the red glow of the lights from The London Eye as he looked at the observation wheel. Sherlock wanted to remember his face like that, looking calm and lost in thought. _Would Ian look like that when he would be back in Edinburgh thinking of this day they had spent together?_

“Let’s sit, the view is amazing.” Ian indicated one of the wooden benches overlooking the river.

Wrapped in their coats, they sat next to each other, their thighs touching, their hands still clutched together. They were best friends linked by late night conversations and banter, by mutual interests and similar tastes. They sat like star-crossed lovers who were forbidden to see each other bar one odd day a year. Sherlock wanted to make the best of that day and he was fairly certain that they had succeeded, even if it had passed in a blink. 

He wanted Ian to experience more of London with him. What made him ecstatic was that London had experienced Ian and him together. The city of London saw Ian, and like a magical entity, wrapped itself around the two of them, making them belong here. Making London forever their place.

“I want to stay longer.” Ian spoke, echoing Sherlock's thoughts. “But I have a flight at 10 tonight.”

“Mine is at 10.45.” Sherlock replied, swallowing a lump in his throat as an unpleasant pressure bloomed in his chest. He kept looking at the red hue around the London Eye and thought of the people trapped in the sightseeing pods. Just like them, he felt trapped, but by time, unable to hold onto the current moment in order to make it last, even for just an infinitesimal amount longer. 

The comfort of Ian’s hand in his and the knowledge that he was so close made Sherlock unable to look at him for fear he would dissolve into thin air, as if he were just a dream.

-

Ian was looking at Sherlock's profile, committing every line to memory. He wanted to trace the sharp cheekbone with his thumb, smell his skin behind the ear where the essence would be truly Sherlock, and bury his face in the long, pale neck, now covered by a scarf. 

He felt as if his body was vibrating inside and was surprised no one could see it, or if they had, no one said anything, not even Sherlock, who was linked to him by the touch of their hands. That touch was the cause of the sensations coursing through his body. The feeling of their intertwined fingers was more intimate than the myriad naked encounters he had had with other people. 

When they had been walking from the bookshop, Ian had been waiting for Sherlock's hand to make the slide from his arm to his hand and it had been a torture worth every second. The moment their hands had matched together like two pieces of a puzzle, he’d felt as if he had been running all his life to reach Sherlock and now, finally, he was holding his hand and the whole journey gained immense meaning. 

Recalling the glorious moment, Ian put his head on Sherlock's shoulder, the warmth in his chest mixing with the acidic nerves in his stomach caused by the separation looming over them. Sherlock tilted his head to rest it on Ian’s. For a few emotional moments, they let their hair tangle together as they looked into the distance. 

“We have to go soon.” Ian broke the silence, letting the horrid statement fly. 

“Any luggage?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled and Ian could feel it where their heads touched as well as hear it. 

“Nope. I just came for the signing so there was no need for any bags.” 

“Same.” 

“Right.”

Sherlock was the first to move away and turn to face Ian. His countenance was stoic but his eyes told a completely different story. Ian could see his own pain reflected there. He was being torn apart inside, just like the two of them were about to be torn apart by their separate lives. 

“I don’t know what I want, Sherlock...” he raised his free hand to swipe an errant lock of hair that had fallen over Sherlock’s forehead. “But I know I want this.” He cupped Sherlock's cold cheek, feeling the evening stubble under his palm and wanting to feel it under his lips. 

“Mmmhmm,” Sherlock agreed, leaning his face into Ian’s hand and closing his eyes. “I have a life in Paris and you have a life in Edinburgh,” Sherlock said with eyes still closed as if he couldn’t bear to look at Ian while saying it. The words were logical. The tone of his voice, however, showcased the anguish that echoed in Ian.

“Yeah...” Ian sighed, stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone just as he’d wanted to do before. He was allowed to touch his friend now. Even if it were just a small caress, he revelled in the privilege. “Let’s not kid ourselves. I like where we’re at and it was enough before we met. It will be enough after.” Ian lied through his teeth, but it seemed the most reasonable thing to say. 

“Enough...” Sherlock repeated, putting his palm over Ian’s and slowly taking it off of his cheek. He opened his eyes then, met Ian’s gaze and held it for a moment as if searching for answers to humanity’s greatest questions.

-

They took an Uber to the City Airport and rode in silence. Thankfully, the driver picked up on the atmosphere and put on music instead of chatting with them. Their hands met in the middle of the backseat and just for the duration of the trip, Sherlock let himself dream. 

He imagined that they were going on a trip together, that they would sit next to each other on a plane and go to Greece. It would be summer and they would soak in the sun during their lazy morning strolls. They would read books in the evenings, listening to a local band play. 

He was such a fool.

When they made it to the airport, they were just in time to rush to stand in their respective lines for the security check.

Sherlock glanced at his watch, then checked their flights again on the board above their heads. It was time. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t. 

“Ian...” Sherlock turned to his friend with whom he’d just spent the best evening of his adult life. He felt as if a rock lay on his chest, squeezing his burning lungs, making it hard to breathe. It hurt. Just like he hurt and burned for Ian.

“Yeah?” Ian looked up at him and Sherlock could tell he felt the same, at least to some extent. 

He couldn’t leave without a kiss. He should have kissed Ian when he had bought the book, then as they’d walked, as they had been sitting on the bench...

There had been so many missed opportunities that day but he refused to allow this moment to become one more. The downward tracks of wetness from Ian's eyes made his heart ache, but also rejoice that he was not the only one suffering. Taking Ian’s face in his hands, Sherlock brushed the tears away with his thumbs, leaving his hands cupping Ian’s cheeks. He wanted to say something profound, something worth this moment, but words abandoned him. Their foreheads met and the open look in Ian’s eyes was one he would remember for the rest of his life. In the glistening gaze lay heartache and affection mixed into one.

Sherlock closed his eyes and, one last time, breathed in the scent of his Ian so close to him. That was the moment when the loud, bustling crowd around them quieted, when the noise of the people waiting for their flights evaporated. As if by magic, they were alone, touching reverently. Sherlock's hands were on Ian’s cheeks, Ian’s palms on the sides of Sherlock’s neck. A tiny tilt of his head indicated his intentions clearly enough for Ian to follow the prompt. 

Their lips met in a tentative touch before they parted. Sherlock tried to register the warmth, the texture, the feel of Ian’s lips, so he would be able to recall it later, during lonely evenings at home.

A gasp stuck in Sherlock’s throat when Ian sucked his bottom lip. Heat blossomed in his abdomen and, emboldened, he sneaked out his tongue over Ian’s lips. 

One more nip.

One more gentle kiss. 

Sherlock pulled away, opening his eyes to see, to burn the memory of Ian’s face into the hard drive of his brain. Then they dove in again, kissing reverently this time, and then again with breathless abandon. Sherlock could taste the tears that made their way to Ian’s lips. He drank them like a crazed man would drink salt water when lost at sea. The deed would probably kill him, but he didn’t care anymore...

“It was too short,” Ian whispered when they finally parted.

“I want more time.” They said in unison, voicing the same thought, then smiled through pain. 

“I promise I’ll kiss you sooner next time,” Sherlock whispered, taking John’s palm from his neck and placing a kiss on its centre.

“Next time?” Ian looked up with eyes filled with hope. 

“I promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ "Singin' in the Rain" - Gene Kelly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w40ushYAaYA)   
> 


	3. The Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after their meeting in real life, Sherlock and Ian's late-night chats grow more heated than before.

Ian: Catherine was definitely a vampire!

Sherlock: One could argue that it’s the reader’s interpretation; even that would only be possible if several other works were subsequently published and readers became more familiar with vampire literature. Vampirism in  _ Wuthering Heights _ might be a metaphorical as well as literal interpretation. 

I: True, but you can’t disregard the evidence for vampirism in the book! Only as a vampire can she repel the constraints placed on her by nineteenth-century society. 

S: That can still be considered a metaphor and you just proved it. I know what you’re trying to do; you won’t convince me that  _ Wuthering Heights _ was a true vampire novel. Absolutely not, Ian. Brontë may have been inspired by Polidori’s story written thirty-one years prior but Stoker was the first to assemble all the lore. The research he did! 

I: Oh, I agree. Then there's ‘Carmilla’... 

S: Not a novel. That’s a short story; it’s completely different. That logic would place ‘The Vampyre’ as the first story. However, she was the first female vampire in literature and that is itself monumental. Shall we discuss ‘The Night Terror’ and its author, who is dubbed ‘the next Bram Stoker’? 

I: I can almost hear you snorting. It was my publisher’s idea, I had nothing to do with it.

S: Yeah, yeah.

I: Ugh. Have you even read the book?

S: Nope.

I: I should sulk.

S: You won’t. It’s not your style.

I: No, it’s yours. You’re the crabbit one of the two of us.

S: Well, today I’m in a good mood.

They had resumed their friendly, literary banter immediately upon returning to their separate lives. Three months after their first, and only, meeting in real life, their friendship had become even closer, their chats even more unguarded, venturing into intimate topics about fantasies and previous relationships. 

Ian’s ex-wife had once told him to stop drooling over the lifeguard when they had been on their honeymoon. He had denied it then but it had given him food for thought. He had always been attracted to both men and women, but growing up, the slurs thrown at his gay sister had made him apprehensive to explore that side of his desires. The biggest breakthrough for him had been holding Sherlock’s hand in London. It had been an admission to himself and to the world that he unashamedly accepted his feelings for his friend.

London was now the happy place Ian dreamed of on bad days; his and Sherlock's place. On lazy Friday evenings like this, Ian wanted to be back in London, strolling alongside Sherlock, chatting about everything and nothing whatsoever.

I: Sometimes I wonder if meeting in person made it better or worse.

S: It?

I: Being so far, yet so close. When I think of that day, I remember you so clearly...

Ian recalled the surreal moment he’d walked to his plane. He couldn’t remember boarding, but he’d touched his face when he was seated in the airplane, imagining he was covering Sherlock’s palms that had rested there moments before. He had taken his phone out, then hugged it as if he was hugging a tiny piece of Sherlock that lived inside.

S: Is it more difficult now?

Ian touched his fingers to his lips where Sherlock had kissed him that day. Then he closed his eyes and sighed wistfully before he put his fingers back on the keyboard. 

I: Yeah. The meeting gave me a sense memory of you, a tactile memory. I know now how your hand feels in mine, I know your scent... 

Ian didn't want to prompt Sherlock to respond, but he hoped that he would. He sipped his whisky and watched the glowing screen of his laptop as he waited for the reply. 

S: Before we met in person, you were real to me, but abstract at the same time. If I closed my eyes, I could convince myself that you were a figment of my imagination. A sympathetic friend with similar interests, a concept worthy of a sci-fi novel. It’s different now. I know you’re there. And when I close my eyes, I imagine I can still feel you.

Ian was processing the new information when another message popped up.

S: Don’t laugh.

I: I’m not. I won’t. I imagine the same thing.

S: Only after the plane took off, and I watched the lights of London diminish, did it hit me. I wanted to text you and cursed the damned flight mode on my phone. I needed to touch you one more time. Just then, watching the city recede, I cried. I feel idiotic saying it now, but I don’t want you to think that I felt nothing. I held onto my composure while we were parting, but then the dam broke. I was happier that we had those hours together than sad that it was over, though. 

I: Thank you for telling me. 

Ian could hardly type the response as he read and reread Sherlock's message. His heart was hurting anew, but knowing Sherlock felt the same gave him a sense of peace. 

S: That day, I wanted to hold your hand so much, I thought I’d burn there on the pavement.

I: I was dying, Sherlock! Feeling your hand slowly move closer to mine was torture! I’m flustered just thinking about it. Why can I type this but not say it to your face? XD 

S: Texting is easier exactly because you can’t see my face. It is for me.

I: Ha! I miss your face...

S: We didn’t get enough time.

I: That’s OK, right? We got more than we ever hoped for. We're fine as we are anyway, right? We were friends before and now we can remain friends. 

Ian desperately wanted to believe going back to just chatting would be enough, but he knew he was lying to himself. He wanted a lot more and their flirtatious late-night talks brought him to touching himself thinking of Sherlock, more often than before. 

S: Yes. 

I: Except now I have thoughts of you that I didn’t have before. 

Ian flushed typing his sentence but they were conversing honestly and he had to own the truth about how he felt. 

S: What thoughts? 

I: I shouldn’t say. 

Ian panicked. They hadn't explicitly agreed to take a step towards carnal endeavours, even if they would be separated by miles while at it. There was a pause so long Ian thought that Sherlock had gone to make tea or something. Then he saw  _ Nosferatu-lives _ is typing and he chided himself for his impatience. 

S: I think of you when I’m alone in bed too.

Ian gasped instantly. He was found out. He had to read the message again to make sure he understood it correctly.

I: You do?

S: Yes.

I: And what happens? 

S: I imagine my hands are yours as I touch myself.

Ian released a shaky breath at the mental image of Sherlock naked, moaning his name.

I: I’m squirming in my seat.

S: Good.

I: I do that too.

S: Good.

I: What else happens?

S: I imagine your voice in my ear.

I: I love your voice.

S: Heh. Have you heard your accent?

I: Oh? You fancy it?

S: I fancy more about you than your voice.

I: I’m sure you can feel through the screen how my face is burning right now. 

S: I had a sip of whisky too much. I’d better go.

Alarm bells started ringing in Ian’s head. They’d gone too far, said too much, and now he had to think of a way to dig himself out of the hole.

-

I: Can I call you?

S: Now?

Sherlock had always been hesitant about talking on the phone. In fact, he absolutely despised it. However, now he had the opportunity to hear Ian’s lilting accent in his ear. He could also deduce more about how Ian really felt about their current topic from his tone of voice than he could from the dry words onscreen. 

I: If you’d like. 

S: Yes. 

Barely a second passed before Beethoven's 5th Symphony filled the room from the tiny speaker. Sherlock looked at the phone in his hand, glowing with Ian’s name. His stomach flipped from excitement and apprehension. He took a deep breath and released it slowly before he pushed the green icon. 

“Hello?” 

“It’s me.” Ian’s voice came loud and clear, albeit a bit hesitant. 

Sherlock left the desk chair he had been occupying unable to sit in place as his body tingled all over. He walked to his bedroom, bathed in darkness, and lay diagonally on his bed, closing his eyes.

#  “Sherlock?”

“I'm here, just getting comfortable. I moved to the bedroom.”

“I’m already in ma scratcher too, under the covers. I was drinking the whisky you sent me.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s the one you ordered in the pub, isn’t it?”

“You noticed.” Sherlock grinned.

“The taste of it reminds me of you. I drink two fingers every now and again. I want it to last.”

“I’m sure you can order it easily in Scotland, you know.”

“That’s not the point.”

Sherlock understood the sentiment as he thought of the shelf in the sitting room. The book Ian had bought him in London was displayed in a glass case. 

The thought aside, there was no way Sherlock would let Ian change the subject that brought the call about. He moved up fully onto the bed as he was getting flustered just hearing Ian’s voice in his ear. There was no point denying that what was happening between them was more sexual in nature than before. 

“Tell me what you do when you think of me. Or better yet, do it and let me listen.” Sherlock let the words fly and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for rejection. On the other end, he could hear Ian choke, then cough. “Are you okay there, Ian?”

“Yeah” he coughed once more. “Yes. Geezus, Sherlock. Do you really want to know?”

Sherlock released a breath of relief and schooled his voice into a smooth and flirtatious tone.  _ Carpe diem _ , he thought.

“Only if you want to share. You’re already in bed.”

“Cheeky!” Ian laughed, clearly not put off by what was being offered. 

-

Sherlock's low chuckle was like the most exquisite and erotic music Ian had ever heard.

“Just hearing your voice does things to me.”

“What things?” Sherlock asked, making Ian groan with embarrassment at the mere thought of voicing his fantasies.

“Unspeakable things.”

“You’re the writer. Tell me.” The seductive voice prompted him and Ian complied, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks.

“I was half hard the moment you said that you imagine your hands are mine when you touch yourself.” Ian bit his lip as he burrowed his head further into his fluffy pillow.

“Mmmhmm. And now?”

“Now, just hearing your voice made me hard.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Oh fuck, Sherlock was going to kill him, Ian thought. If so, he was ready to die because he was not about to stop. Ian flattened his palm over his aching cock to release some of the tension in it, instead he found himself groaning into the phone.

“Oh...” Sherlock sounded intrigued.

“No, no, I just...” Ian flustered, realising what he must have sounded like. Then again, it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Yes, me too. And your hand is on my upper thigh now...” The lewd quality of Sherlock's voice was topped only by the long exhale that sent shivers down Ian’s spine.

Ian couldn't breathe. Couldn’t think. Probably because there was no more blood left in his brain. All of it was pulsing through his cock now. He was horny, hard and ready in a moment, prompted by even just the prospect of sex.

“Your hand is opening my trousers now.” Emboldened by Sherlock's confession, Ian unzipped his fly, slid his trousers and boxers to his knees, then kicked them away, not caring where they landed.

“Yours is sliding my boxers down and ahhhh Ian...”

The lascivious sound Sherlock made prompted Ian to wrap his fingers around his aching erection and groan in response. 

“Is my hand on your cock, Ian?” growled Sherlock, kindling a fire in Ian that he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

“Yes... yes, it is.” Ian’s breathing picked up and his voice came out in a whisper, making it impossible to deny his intentions anymore. “Talk to me. Tell me what your hand is doing.”

“Now I’m tightening the grip, then stroking it once.”

“Yes, you are...” Ian panted, complying, his hand doing precisely what Sherlock said.

“Put me on speaker and place the phone next to your ear. I’ll do the same.”

Without releasing his cock, Ian did as he’d been told using only the hand holding the device. Closing his eyes, he immersed himself in the fantasy of Sherlock’s hands on him. Sherlock would be above him, his hair falling from its swoop and onto his forehead, his mesmerising eyes looking into his own.

“My other hand is cupping your sac, Ian. I’m playing with it, loving the feel of the weight in my hand. All this while stroking your cock with the utmost languorousness. I want to hear you moan as I tease you with just enough movement to set you on fire, but not enough for you to reach release too quickly.” 

“Fuuuuuck... Sherlock...” Ian’s hands moved according to Sherlock’s directions, delivered in that lewd baritone. 

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Amazing. Ahhh your hands on me are gentle but sure. I want you to show me how good it feels to give my body to you.” Ian kept stroking, establishing a rhythm, trying not to thrust his hips into his fist, not to reach the crescendo too fast.

“The hand that is on your balls now moves to your lips. Wet my index finger, Ian.” Sherlock was panting too, his words coming out in groans as he was clearly taking good care of himself as well. “I want to hear the pop when you remove my finger from your mouth. That’s it. Very good, Ian. That finger is circling your nipple now.”

“Wait, I need to pull my t-shirt up.” Ian moved quickly, discarding his shirt, before he placed his hands back in their designated position. “Ok, it’s there. Your finger is on my nipple.”

“I take it between my thumb and forefinger and roll it,” came a low rumble and Ian arched, doing Sherlock’s bidding, feeling the pleasure course through him. “You like teasing your nipples, don’t you Ian?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m twisting it harder now.” 

“Ahhh, Sherlock!” Ian moaned, twisting his nipple, losing the rhythm he had on his cock with the other hand. 

“I treat your other nipple the same way. Oh... how I adore the sounds you make, Ian. I could listen to you moan all night. I could tease you for hours until you begged me for release.” 

Ian couldn’t think anymore; his brain was fried. The only things that existed were Sherlock's voice in his ear and Sherlock’s hand on him, moving, teasing...

“I’m close...” Ian whispered between pants.

“My hands are on your thighs now.”

“What?” Ian voiced his confusion through a haze of near-orgasm.

“You heard me.” The commanding tone made Ian comply immediately. “Take a deep breath. That’s it.” Ian heard Sherlock inhale along with him. “Now release the breath slowly. Repeat it... Good. My hands are massaging your inner thighs, slowly moving to your abdomen. We can stop at any moment. Just say the word.” 

“No. I want it. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re doing to me. Anything... just...” Ian writhed on the sheets, uselessly seeking friction to his sensitive skin as his hands moved over the less erogenous zones of his body. He felt as if he were a tight string about to break, his skin tingling from the need to be touched. 

“Do you have lube nearby?” Sherlock’s question was followed by a familiar click of a bottle opening on the other end of the line.

“Yes.” Ian reached into the top drawer and a moment later, his own bottle of lubricant made the same sound. He hissed as the cool liquid covered his sensitive erection.

“My right hand is lubed and back on your cock. Now you’re licking the finger of the left one.”

Ian complied; his nipples were peaked and ready to be teased again.

“The wet finger moves behind your balls to put pressure on your perineum.”

“What?” Ian sobered for a moment then remembered what Sherlock had previously said. He didn’t want to stop. “Okay.” Ian’s skin tingled as he touched himself. He was a tool for Sherlock’s words, his hands puppets for the show master in his ear. This was something he’d not considered exploring too deeply, due to ingrained fear of judgement. Now it was different; those were Sherlock’s hands touching him. His friend seemed to know precisely what Ian needed to break free of those fears, more than he knew it himself, even if he was a bit shocked that Sherlock was willing to go that far over the phone. Heat bloomed in his abdomen at the touch and a lewd moan left his lips. “Your finger feels so... good, Sherlock.”

“Mmmm, I put more pressure with it, massaging, slowly moving further.” Sherlock’s words were strained as if he were doing the same to himself, but Ian had no brain power left to ask questions; he just complied.

His body was on fire. 

Tiny flames were licking his skin and all he wanted was to burn for Sherlock. Ian imagined Sherlock’s body over him, Sherlock’s lips at his neck, his fingers teasing...

Ian whimpered at the touch. He could hardly believe what he was doing, and that he was letting Sherlock listen, let alone direct his movements. In that moment, he found no shame in himself. What coursed through him were passion and trust.

“Now I take some lube from your cock and tease your entrance.” Sherlock was moaning himself, the sounds bringing Ian closer to orgasm just as much as the touch was.

“Oh fuck, Sherlock... I’ve never before... I haven’t...” Ian let his bent legs fall open as his finger touched his opening. He was able to explore himself more in Sherlock’s presence than he’d ever done it alone.

“We can stop.”

“No! Ahhhh.” Ian circled his finger, shamelessly making needy sounds that Sherlock echoed on the other end. 

“My hand on your cock is moving faster now and the finger is dipping inside you. Nnnnnggghhh... Just the tip.”

“Sherlock! Ohhhhh...” Ian arched yelling his friend’s name into the darkness of his bedroom. The tip of his finger slid inside. The novelty of the feeling and the ensuing sparks of pleasure made his body strain and his muscles spasm.

“Come for me, Ian.” Sherlock's growl was accompanied by a slick noise similar to the one Ian was making with his hand. The words hit him like an axe falling on the tight string of his body, cutting it in half, letting what remained soar into the air. 

He yelled Sherlock’s name and heard his own at the other end of the line. Warm spurts hit his chest, thighs, and palm. Ian placed both hands on his sides as he lay splayed on the bed. He felt overheated, as if burning from within. His sheets weren’t cold enough to bring him relief but he revelled in the contrast of the fabric to his searing skin anyway.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock’s satiated voice drew Ian back from his dreamlike state.

“Mmmhmm, you?”

“You have no idea.”

“I think I do.” Ian chuckled and so did his friend, with whom he had just had the hottest wank of his life. It felt so good to be understood, to finally find solace in someone who didn’t judge him. His chest burned with ineffable feelings unrelated to physical pleasure.

As his mind slowly came back to life, he remembered what he wanted to tell Sherlock at the beginning of their conversation. Their talk had taken so many twists and turns, he had completely forgotten. “Sherlock?” 

“Yes?” The professor seemed as groggy as Ian felt. 

“I’m going to Paris for a few days.” Ian’s heart thudded in his chest as he announced the news.

“When?” The excitement was clear in Sherlock’s voice as he seemed to perk up immediately and Ian breathed a sigh of relief, smiling.

“In two months, May 21-24. I’m going with my sister to attend her friends’ wedding and we’ll be staying in Paris.” Ian had told Sherlock about his sister, who was also his agent, during their more personal chats. 

“Will you have any free time?”

“Oh yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I wondered if you’d want to meet up the day before the wedding.”  _ Please say yes...  _ He dared to hope Sherlock would reciprocate Ian’s elation at the prospect of meeting again. 

There was a rustle of fabric, as if Sherlock was sitting up.

“Obviously.” Sherlock's voice was matter-of-fact but the enthusiasm was as clear as the crispness of his speech. 

“Excellent.” Ian didn’t want to admit how ecstatic he had been to hear that he had been handed an excellent excuse to visit Sherlock without imposing. 

“It’s a date then.” The tease was clear in Sherlock's voice and Ian chuckled then sobered up a bit as he looked down at his state of debauchery.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“It’s all fine between us, right? What we just did doesn’t change anything, does it?” 

“No,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Of course not.”

“We’re still friends, just... we’re more, too.”

“Yes, Ian.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Ian lay still and quiet for a moment, considering where he wanted to go from here. He wanted to know Sherlock better, more intimately. He was hoping that they’d have the chance to take this further in Paris, deeper than phone sex, although he’d like more of that between now and then, too.

“I think I need a shower.” Ian felt the stickiness on his thigh and grimaced.

“Mmmhmm. Same.”

Ian couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him and a second later heard it echo through the phone by Sherlock’s low rumbling chuckle. 

“Two months, then.” Sherlock said in lieu of goodbye, his voice low and casual, but with clear indication of a smile.

“Talk to you tomorrow?” Ian couldn’t keep the hope of his voice.

“Talk to you tomorrow.”


	4. The Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian visits Sherlock at his place in Paris and they give in to their desires.

After a long drive through England, then half of France, Ian and Harry finally arrived at their hotel in Paris. Sherlock had offered to host them but Ian felt that staying there with his sister would be awkward as he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep his hands off Sherlock. The following day, Ian dropped Harry off at Jenny and Madeleine’s house just after lunch, so she could help her friends with last minute preparations before the wedding.

He greeted the hosts and excused himself to use the restroom. Leaving it afterwards, he was stopped in his tracks by his sister’s words. 

“His name is Mycroft and he arranged things I wadna been able to, even if I was pulling strings for weeks!” Harry was excitedly telling her friends about a guy whose name was the same as Sherlock's brother. That fact discombobulated Ian to an alarming degree.

“Really?” Madeleine seemed to be engrossed in the story.

“Aye, I tracked him down after Ian told me what University he was the dean of. Did I mention he talks a haip about Sherlock?”

“You did.” Jenny chuckled.

“So, I talked to ‘im about how our brothers were being complete twats, and the next day I had a spot at Foyles for Ian’s signing in prime time on a Saturday. He guaranteed his brother would be there too. Ian has been talking about this bloke for almost a year now, as if he was writing a book about ‘im and doing extensive research. But pffft! I know it’s a lot more than that though, I know ma idiot of a brother well enough.”

“So that’s why you brought your brother as plus one, huh?” Madeleine pressed for an explanation.

“How else wad I get Ian to come here to visit his ‘friend’” She used air quotes saying the last word. She gasped then. “Oh! I should have asked ye! You're both doctors, maybe ye could have figured out a medical excuse for me to force him to escort me all the way here.”

“Harry!?” Ian’s voice boomed throughout the sitting room as he stepped into the open space. “What did you do?!”

“Only what you feart doing!” Harry fired back in defence, her Scottish accent getting thicker as it always had when they argued.

“You meddled in my private life before, and I clearly remember how that ended.”

“Oh shut it! That time I just opened yer eyes, Ian! She was cheatin’ on ye. And now ye needed a kick to open yer eyes again. I know when ma brother’s in love. And the dreamy look on yer face whenever you mention yer ‘online friend, Sherlock’ – which is constantly, by the way -- told me everything I needed to know.” She was panting by the end of her tirade. Crossing her arms, she thrust her chin up, ready for Ian’s counter attack. 

“You’re talking mince! You can’t just see it, Harry!” Ian didn’t want to dig up his failed marriage to Mary, but when it came to Sherlock, Harry might have been right...

“Yes, I can! So now,” she poked a finger at the middle of his chest. “Grow a pair and go meet with ‘im.” She looked at her friends then and presented a smug smirk in Ian’s direction. “We don’t expect to hear from ye before mornin’.”

Both Jenny and Madeleine snorted a laugh then reined it in for Ian’s benefit. 

“Patronising wench...” Ian muttered, shaking his head as a smile overtook his face.

“Blind bawbag! You're not always the braw laddie ye paint yourself to be either, Ian.” She huffed in a teasing tone, calming visibly and grinning back.

Ian sighed and let his shoulders sag in resignation. Instead of being furious at his sister, he felt as if a burden had been lifted off of his shoulders. It was as if what Harry had seen written on his face was a confirmation of how he had really felt for a while, but had been denying it to himself.

She stood with her arms open and he stepped into the hug, patting her back in thanks.

“You’re still a meddling clipe,” he teased, squeezing her tighter.

“And you’re still a stubborn mule.” She pushed him off and straightened her button-down.

Ian turned to Jenny and Madeleine offering as charming a smile as he could. 

“Sorry about that.”

“Just go get him already.” Madeleine grinned at him. “Oh! We had two couples cancel last minute so we have four empty seats… you know, just in case you’d like to bring votre cher, Sherlock, and celebrate with us.”

“Uhh, I don’t… he’s not,” Ian shook his head as a smile took over his face at his flustered state. “I’ll ask him.” 

“Good luck!” Jenny waved at him as he was already on his way out the door.

After a quick visit to a local grocery store, where Ian butchered the French language to the point the cashier told him to just speak English instead, he drove to Sherlock's place.

Ian was both anxious and excited. They had discussed their meeting and agreed they wouldn’t push for anything. If they wanted to spend their time sitting and talking, or watching an old movie together, it would be all fine. If things became physical, that would be okay too.

They had had wanking sessions several times after that memorable evening when Ian had called Sherlock for the first time. Even if he wanted to devour Sherlock and be devoured in return, once they were face to face, he might feel differently. They had talked about what they wanted to do if they ever ventured further than holding hands and decided to go with what the moment would bring. Whatever they would do, it would be perfect. 

Standing at the front door of Sherlock's flat, Ian took a deep breath, smoothed his shirt with his palm and lifted his hand to knock. The feeling of excitement was on his skin and in his elevated heart rate. 

“Hello, Ian. Welcome to my humble abode.” Sherlock swung the door open with the suave and theatrical flair that Ian had missed immensely since they’d parted five months ago.

“Hi. I brought wine.” Ian said quickly, thrusting the wine at Sherlock’s chest. “It’s so cheap here,” he remarked with a nervous chuckle.

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s smile was full of warm amusement as he accepted the gift, clearly seeing how flustered Ian was.

Ian stepped inside and took in the cosy space of the flat decorated in warm colours and wood. Quickly enough, they continued the conversation they’d started the evening before via Discord until Ian had passed out with his phone on his chest.

The first glass of wine made Ian loosen his shirt collar as he fell into the comfortable companionship of his best friend. The glint in Sherlock’s eyes as he looked at the hint of exposed neck made Ian flush, and their glances became more desirous in nature. 

They stood up so Sherlock could show Ian his collection of first edition books. The book Ian had bought for him stood next to them in a glass case. As Ian looked at it, he could feel Sherlock’s warm body standing behind him. He was close... so close. 

He could see Sherlock reflected in the glass, looking down at Ian with a needy expression on his face. Without looking back, Ian reached behind himself to find his friend’s hand.

The surprise on Sherlock’s face was clear in the reflection. Ian placed the hand on his right hip, needing to feel his touch. Sherlock followed the prompt, stepping even closer, putting his other hand on the opposite hip with a gentle, yet possessive hold. 

Ian leaned into the comfort of Sherlock’s taller frame and revelled at the proximity. Feeling as if he’d been covered with a blanket of contentment, Ian exhaled slowly, his body relaxing into the luxurious embrace. He tilted his head up and to his right, looking up at Sherlock’s face just millimetres from his. 

“God, how I want you, Ian...” Sherlock’s whisper was akin to a growl as his lips hovered above Ian’s. 

In lieu of a response, Ian stood on tiptoe to close the distance between their mouths. He’d imagined them kissing again for five months, and now he refused to waste a single second they had together. Sherlock’s lips were soft and tentative as they kissed languidly, familiarising themselves with the feeling of being so close again. They were at an awkward angle, so Ian turned around and recaptured Sherlock’s lips, pouring need into him so he would know beyond words how much Ian wanted him in return. He slid his tongue into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, tasting the wine and a desire for contact that rivalled his own. 

Their movements became more frantic as the kiss deepened. Sherlock’s large hands cupped Ian’s face, mirroring the pose from their first kiss at the airport. The memory triggered an emotional response in Ian and he could hardly believe that Sherlock was indeed in his arms again.

“I need you.” Ian breathed when they parted for air, the words pale in comparison to what he felt inside. He didn’t just need Sherlock —he craved to know his body; he coveted the time they could spend together talking and laughing while holding hands, gently touching one another. He hoped physical intimacy would strengthen their friendship and not pull them apart.

“I’m not letting you go.” The look in Sherlock’s eyes embodied Ian’s thoughts.

“I’m not asking you to.” Ian grinned and was rewarded by the glorious sound of a low chuckle echoing in the room. 

“I prepared paprika hendl if you’re hungry --” Sherlock started saying but Ian placed a finger over his lips. Sherlock must have sensed Ian’s apprehension to continuing further and offered him an alternative but despite the concern for their friendship and anxiety beforehand, Ian was sure what he wanted.

“I can pretend that I can keep my hands to myself in your presence for a moment longer... Or we can do what we’ve been talking about doing for months now.” Ian gave Sherlock a meaningful look and watched his friend’s expression shift from affectionate to wickedly lustful. 

Their clothes progressively vanished from their bodies the closer they got to the bedroom. Ian was too impatient to undress Sherlock with the finesse he would have liked. If they’d ever had a chance to do it again, he vowed to himself that he would take his time, taking every piece of clothing off of Sherlock with his teeth, teasing his body as he went.

Now, however, he needed to have his hands on his friend as fast and for as long as he would be allowed to. By the time their bare feet stepped onto the soft rug at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, they were clothed in just matching pairs of black boxer briefs.

“I see you share my good taste in undergarments,” Sherlock remarked, smirking down at Ian with a glint in his eye. His suave expression didn’t hide the blush on his cheeks and Ian could tell by now that Sherlock was just as anxious as he was. 

“I guess so.” Ian chuckled as a pleasant thought of them being different yet so similar and compatible crossed his mind.

Sherlock hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Ian’s underwear and pulled him closer. The mirth in his face slowly faded, leaving him serious. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed before asking:

“May I?”

Ian nodded, releasing a shaky breath of anticipation. “Yes,” he added for extra confirmation. “And Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“You may... everything...”

“Until you tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

Sherlock lifted Ian’s chin with his index finger and looked at him with an austere gaze. “You’ve told me that you haven’t been with a man before. You can ask questions or we can just stop at any moment, do you understand?”

“Yes, but --”

“No, Ian. I want you to know that you are not obliged to do anything even after you say you want to do it. If you change your mind, we’ll stop. I need you to understand that.”

“I understand.” Ian watched Sherlock’s expression soften a bit at the agreement. It was astounding how he could stand in front of Sherlock, whom he’d met only once before, and feel safe and respected. As sincerely as he could muster, he simply said: “Thank you, Sherlock. It goes both ways.” 

Sherlock nodded once, then knelt in front of him. His gaze moved downward as he slowly slid Ian’s boxers off. Ian’s heartbeat thudded in his ears and his breathing became shallow. Similarly, Sherlock’s breathing picked up audibly as his eyes zeroed in on Ian’s fully erect cock springing from its confinement. He swallowed, cursed in English, then in French, before he stood up and efficiently removed his own underwear. 

Heat stained Ian’s cheeks at the magnificence of Sherlock's fully naked form. He was the epitome of male beauty. He stood, like Michelangelo's David, proud and strong. However, instead of a warning glare, he looked at Ian with open eagerness. As Ian’s gaze slid lower, he noticed another significant difference between Sherlock’s form and the famous statue. Not letting Ian look his fill, Sherlock kissed him again. 

Just as impatient, Ian stepped forward and pushed Sherlock playfully on the bed before he covered his friend’s nakedness with his own. He straddled Sherlock's hips and marvelled at the sight before him. He had seen naked men before; during his rugby days at school, in the locker room or under the showers, but never in a sexual setting. Never like this. However, it wasn’t just the sight of a gorgeous body that drove him right now; it was the fact that it was Sherlock's. Ian had never been more certain of his attraction to the same sex as he was now. 

“Have you changed your mind?” Sherlock asked, with no trace of panic or resentment in his voice. 

“Definitely not!” Ian protested. “I’m just... I just want to look at you,” he reassured, then sighed audibly, still enthralled. Sherlock’s leanly muscled chest was nearly hairless, his strong arms folded behind his head as a small smile played on his face. Ian’s gaze landed on Sherlock's groin. “You’re... so beautiful...” He licked his lips, looking at the hint of precome on Sherlock’s ready cock, then forced himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “I want to taste you, but I haven’t...” 

“You know how it works on the other end, right?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“So you know whatever you do, it will make me feel good. Explore if you wish.” Sherlock reached to place a hand on Ian’s thigh as he looked at him. “My body is yours tonight.”

Accepting Sherlock’s words, Ian still found himself needing to tread slowly. Glad that they’d already covered the topic of both of them being clean during their chats about this possibility, Ian continued.

He leaned to place a small yet heated kiss on Sherlock’s lips before he moved to kiss his sharp jawline, long neck and clavicle -- all the places he’d been dreaming of kissing for months. Sherlock's right nipple became hard under his tongue and he flicked the other one as well before sucking it, eliciting a low rumble from Sherlock’s chest. The deeply erotic sound sent a wave of heat to Ian’s groin and he hastened to lick the glistening drop forming at the tip of Sherlock's cock. 

It tasted funny. 

Not bad, but unlike anything that had ever been in his mouth before. His curiosity piqued, he licked again, then looked up to see a dazed expression in Sherlock's hooded eyes, his flushed face, his mouth parted, his head propped up on a pillow so he could watch. 

Holding Sherlock’s gaze, he sucked the glans into his mouth. 

“Oh fuck, Ian...” Sherlock’s abdominal muscles strained as he struggled to refrain from thrusting his hips.

Emboldened, Ian wrapped his fingers around the long shaft and slid his mouth lower. All too soon, however, he gagged and his eyes watered as the tip of Sherlock’s cock hit the back of his throat. He retracted quickly and sat up, coughing awkwardly as if he were a teenager taking his first drag of a cigarette.

Sherlock didn’t let him get embarrassed, as he cupped his cheeks.

“Lay on your front.” Sherlock's growl permeated Ian’s body and he immediately moved to comply, then stopped.

“I wasn’t done, yet,” he said giving Sherlock’s glorious cock a longing look. 

“If you continue, I’ll come sooner than I’d like to.” Sherlock offered a cheeky smile to go with the compliment. “I want to taste you as well and make sure we come together.”

Ian nodded, wanting the same, his own need for Sherlock’s touch overshadowing his capacity for slow exploration. They switched positions on the bed, with Ian laying on his front and Sherlock behind him.

What Ian had hungered to hear most, was that they would have time to do everything they wanted. If not tonight, then another night. They would do this again and again until they familiarised themselves with each other’s bodies, desires and responses. However, neither of them was sure of how feasible their long-distance friendship with a dash of more would be in the future. They’d agreed not to give each other false hope and such a declaration would have been exactly that. 

Ian’s hands stacked flat on each other with his chin resting atop before he craned his neck to see that Sherlock was looking at him, similarly to how he had been ogling Sherlock just moments before. The lustful look in Sherlock’s eyes confirmed that Ian wouldn’t regret his decision to give himself fully to this man.

Sherlock’s long fingers traced Ian’s calves on both sides, disturbing the soft hairs growing there. 

“It tickles!” Ian laughed and Sherlock lifted his hands up as if in surrender. “Touch me harder. I mean...” Ian reached for the pillow beside him and burrowed his face in it, refusing to glance back again.

“I know what you mean.” Sherlock chuckled and placed his hands firmly on the same spot. Ian felt a kiss on the soft skin behind his knee and he laid his head sideways on the pillow, relaxing more as his mortification passed. 

Sherlock touched as if Ian were an object of his veneration, laying there to be worshipped.

The open-mouthed kisses travelled from the knee, up the back of his thigh and to his buttock. Ian felt a gentle graze of teeth, then another kiss. The promise of a little pain made his breathing accelerate and he lifted his bum up a bit to send what he hoped was a clear signal.

Sherlock bit harder and this time, and Ian let out a moan in return as Sherlock’s large palms cupped his buttocks and squeezed. 

“Ian Malcolm MacLachlan, you have a magnificent arse.” Sherlock’s baritone was spiked with lust and Ian wriggled slightly at the praise, smiling at the completely new bedroom compliment. “I want to do so many things to it.”

The sentence made Ian close his eyes and wistfully reply:

“Then do them... all of them.” Then he added, “I’ll tell you if it’s too much, but don’t pull back unless I stop you. Please.” Ian desperately needed for Sherlock to let go so they could enjoy each other fully. 

The reply came in the form of Sherlock’s hands gripping Ian’s hips to pull his bum up. On his knees, with his face down and arse up, he felt deliciously exposed. There was no shadow of embarrassment as he settled into the position; his cock was swinging between his legs, leaking precome on the luxurious, white sheets. Ian had thought of this moment for months and, after experimenting with his body in new ways when on phone with Sherlock, he’d decided that if the opportunity arose, he would want Sherlock to take him. 

He knew what to expect as Sherlock had described many times what he’d do to him if Ian ever let him. Despite that, Ian still yelped the moment Sherlock's tongue slid over his hole. Then he released a groan so lewd he could hardly believe it had come from him. 

Sherlock licked his entrance with the flat of his talented tongue at first, alternated the movements with round licks with the pointed tip of his tongue. Ian bit into the pillow, moaning incoherent words of pleasure. When Sherlock's tongue prodded for entry, Ian was glad for his thorough shower before. 

Just the tip of Sherlock’s tongue was in him and Ian was already on the brink of coming. 

“Not yet,” Sherlock growled in a commanding tone, pulling away.

Ian sighed, then took several deep breaths, and working his abdominal muscles, eased back from the ledge of ecstasy.

“I’m ready,” Ian panted as Sherlock scooted off the bed and retrieved a bottle of lubricant from the bedside drawer. 

The cool liquid felt exquisite on Ian’s heated skin and he gripped the pillow, ready to moan into it again when Sherlock’s fingers spread the lube along his crease.

“Why the pillow?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t want your neighbours—”

“I don’t care. I want to hear your moans and your voice when you curse in words I can’t understand. I want to know how much you like my fingers inside you, Ian...”

“Yes...aaaaahhhhh...” Ian wailed, feeling a long digit slowly slid inside him. Sherlock poured more lube and worked his finger in and out. The feeling itself wasn’t unfamiliar to Ian anymore, but the fact that it was Sherlock doing it to him magnified its significance. 

Ian stopped regulating the sounds he made; he just let them fly free instead, luxuriating in the pressure of another finger as Sherlock prepared him. When Sherlock's other hand started stroking Ian’s cock, his legs started to shake from the onslaught of delicious stimuli. 

“I can’t,” Ian finally mewled. “I need you inside me this instant or I’ll come. I swear, Sherlock...” 

“Lay on your back,” came Sherlock’s command. Ian looked over his shoulder and realised that Sherlock’s voice was so strained because he was equally close to orgasm. His cock was full and ready as Sherlock heaved short breaths of a beast about to pounce. 

“Oh?” Ian enquired before complying. 

Sherlock helped Ian flip to his back and then gave him a look of adoration mixed with fire. “I need to see the expression on your face as I slide in, then move inside you until I come. If you let me...” 

“Yes...” Ian let his head fall onto the pillow and spread his legs shamelessly. 

Sherlock fit in the vee of Ian’s legs so perfectly that it was clear he belonged there. His graceful hands guided Ian’s legs to circle his waist. The frantic eagerness that had heretofore driven Ian was replaced by calm anticipation. He was ready for Sherlock to finally, carnally claim him.

Their gazes met and Ian nodded at the unspoken question in Sherlock’s eyes. Message received, Sherlock slicked his cock with more lube and guided it into Ian. 

“Ooohhhhh fuuuuuuck...” Ian’s moan was wrenched from deep within him the moment the tip of Sherlock’s sizeable cock breached the tight ring of muscle. Rapture threatened to overwhelm him; he gripped the sheets at his sides and watched Sherlock’s gorgeous face focus on the task at hand. Sherlock was growling with pleasure but also observing Ian’s reaction, looking for signs of protest. All Ian gave were words of encouragement. The slight burn came when Sherlock slid a bit further. Seeing Ian wince, he retracted and added more lube. 

“Okay?” he asked in a strained voice, clearly holding onto thin threads of composure. 

“More...” was Ian’s response, as coherent as he could muster. He tried to relax, just as Sherlock had taught him when they had phone sex. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s back feeling the muscles tense and move along with the man. 

Sherlock drove further, relentlessly filling Ian, whose body accepted the length eagerly, as he moaned the name of the man who held his body and mind's pleasure at his mercy. Desperate to feel all of Sherlock inside him, Ian tightened his hold and pulled them closer.

Sherlock sounded an elaborate curse ending in ‘baiser’. Whether he meant ‘fuck’ or ‘kiss’ in French mattered not to Ian as Sherlock seated himself deep until their bodies met. In unison, they released deep breaths and smiled at each other. 

Ian rolled his hips, making Sherlock moan above his lips before he stole Ian’s breath with a searing kiss. They parted, panting, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling. Sherlock balanced his body with one forearm on the mattress and reached for Ian’s hand with the other. Their fingers intertwined, just as the first time they’d met.

That was the moment Ian knew deep within himself that they were not just having sex. For the first time, Ian truly felt what it was to make love. 

“It feels like I’m home...” Sherlock whispered. The reverence in his voice permeated Ian’s being before Sherlock started moving his hips. 

Ian’s heavy cock lay trapped between their bodies and Ian reached for it with his free hand. He groaned in pleasure and so did Sherlock as they coordinated their movements. The glide of Sherlock’s cock inside Ian brought back the near-orgasmic feeling, and Ian knew that this time he wouldn’t be able to stop. He released his cock and let Sherlock’s movements generate maddening friction on it.

“I’m... Sherlock... I’m coming...” The words tore from his throat as he felt his muscles shake, his body strain as he arched, tightening his hold on Sherlock’s hand.

“Yes, Ian! Yessss!” Sherlock yelled as his body tensed and his cock twitched inside Ian. 

The ecstasy that surged through him sounded itself in the form of Sherlock's name erupting from his lips

Sherlock collapsed next to Ian, their hands joining again as they lay panting. Ian’s body missed the fullness Sherlock had given him moments prior but he was unable to move or speak as he luxuriated in absolute post-coital bliss.

Next to him, in a broken Scottish accent, Sherlock's voice rumbled quietly:

“Now we maun totter down, John,

And hand in hand we’ll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John, my jo.”

Ian recognized the words immediately, smiling at Sherlock's romantic streak. He had just quoted Scotland's national bard in the romantic version of a traditional bawdy ballad.

Ian’s heart swelled and he turned his head to look at Sherlock’s regal profile.

“You know Burns!” Ian grinned.

“I would be a shite literature professor if I didn’t,” Sherlock replied with mirth and satiation.

“True,” Ian chuckled, sighing contentedly. 

They lay for a moment longer and Ian’s thoughts gradually turned to the real world as he emerged from the hazy bubble. He decided Sherlock needed to know that he had been planning big changes in his life. 

When he opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock spoke first.

“I have a confession to make.” 

“Me too,” Ian admitted. 

“I finally read your book,” Sherlock said, turning to face Ian, a small smile playing on his face. 

“Oh really? Am I ready for what you have to say?” he teased. 

“I will tell you once my brain starts working again, but I liked it. Or rather, it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be.” 

“Arsehole!” Ian chided playfully, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

He sobered a bit before revealing his own information. 

“I’ll be moving to London soon. Well, soon-ish.” He would be a bit closer for visiting Sherlock when needed but, not wanting to share that particular thought, he ploughed through the rest of his statement quickly. “It will be easier for me to attend the signings and the lectures I’ve been asked to give. I need a change too, a fresh start. I’ve already started the process and I’ll be looking for a flat soon. Why are you smiling?”

Sherlock’s grin became wider before he tamed it to speak.

“I planned a change in my life too. I was offered a position back in London, at UCL, and I’ve already agreed to take it. I have a flat there,” he gave Ian a cheeky smile. “...but I’ll be looking for a flatmate.”

“Oh really?”

“Interested?”

“Maybe.” Ian played coy, knowing Sherlock saw through him. 

“We can still take it slow, Ian. I’m not pressing.” 

“Fuck slow.” 

Ian kissed Sherlock with a feverish need, imagining being able to do this every evening, not just once or twice a year. The gossamer dream of them together became more solid, tangible, real. 

And what a dream that was…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now COMPLETE!  
> Thank you for reading, giving kudos and commenting on this little fluff turned smut fest. I really appreciate it :)
> 
> It's 29th January! Happy Anniversary to John and Sherlock - the day they met and decided to look at a flat together ;)
> 
> Since this chapter had been posted, several people asked me if I will continue this story. The answer is: I plan to.
> 
> UPDATE: A continuation for this fic is in works. I have several chapters ready and a complete draft for 12 more chapters of similar length as here.   
> I will continue posting as a direct continuation (ch5, ch6, etc) so if you'd like to be notified when I start posting, you can subscribe to this fic :)  
> Thank you all for all the love you left in comments for this fic. I really appreciate it and it makes it a joy to continue writing for such a wonderful audience. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comments! They mean a lot and keep me writing!  
>   
>   
> If you enjoy my writing consider subscribing to [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine)  
> :)  
> If you liked this AU and you'd like more AUs from me, please check out my vampire story [Sanguineous Serendipity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535255/chapters/51335803)  
> or my punk band AU (WIP) [Dissonance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358196/chapters/43466693)  
>   
>   
> You can follow/contact me on:  
> [Johnlock Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sherlockedcarmilla)  
> [Johnlock Twitter](https://twitter.com/CarmillaCarmin)  
> For queries connected with translating my work, please see my bio :)


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